Oscar Wilde, Volume 1 (of 2)

above water for a couple of years while learning something about life and more about himself. On the other hand he had spent almost

make his way as a journalist, the English did not care for his poetry; but there was s

at owing to the "astonishing success of his 'Poems' M

had resolved to break into this new fi

republican seized occasion by the forelock and wrote a play on the Nihilist Conspiracy called Vera. This drama was impregnated wi

n actress of some merit, to accept Vera for the stage. It was suddenly announced that Vera would be put on by Mrs. Bernard Beere at The Adelphi in December, '81; but the author had to be content with t

still strongly influenced, if not formed, by English taste, and, if Oscar Wilde had been properly accredite

ed at Twenty-seven: on H

he fuglemen of his caste whose praise had brought him to the front in England were almost unrepresented in the States, and never bold enough to be partisans. Oscar faced the American Philist

a monetary failure. The Nation gave a very fair account of his first lecture: "Mr. Wilde is essentially a foreign product and can hardly succeed in this country. What he has to say is not new, and

when he returned to New York. The gross receipts amounted to some ￡4,000: he received about ￡1,20

but student work, the best passages in them being mere paraphrases of Pater and Arnold, though the titles were borrowed from Whistler. Dr. Ernest Bendz in hi

e dullest had to admit that his elocution was excellent, and the manner of speech is keenly appreciated in America. In some of the Eastern towns, in New Y

breeches, flowing wigs and green ties. They all wore large lilies in their buttonholes and each man carried a huge sunflower as he limped along." That

those who came to scoff, if they did not exactly remain to pray, at least left the Music Hall wi

dwined and dwindled. Still he persevered and after leaving

his was merely a return of money she had advanced; but there can be no doubt that Oscar, unlike his br

n Golden Square. This at once brought about a break with Whistler who accused him of plagi

e, and with Whistler's well-known opinions, it is impossible not to admit that the charge was justified. Such phrases

n and I declared that the lecture ranked with the best ever heard in London with Coleridge's on Shakespeare and Carlyle's on Heroes. To my astonishment Oscar would not admit the superlative quality of Whistler's talk; he thought the message paradoxical and the ridicule of the professors too bitter. "Whistler's like a wasp," he cried, "and carries about with him a poisoned sting." Oscar's kindly sweet nature revolted against the disdainful aggressiveness of Whistler's attitude. Besides, in essence, Whistler's lecture was an attack on the academic theory ta

rgument.... "Oscar-the amiable, irresponsible, esurient Oscar-with no more sense of

ing homage to Oscar Wilde's "amiability": Whistler even preferred to call him

never more than a pupil in either field; for controversy in especial he was poorly equipped:

e Prescott at the Union Square Theatre. It was a complete failure, as might have been expected; the serious part of it was such as any talented young man might have written. Nevertheless I find

e theatre, but not enough for freedom or ease. It is the more to his credit that as soon

tters, from Victor Hugo to Paul Bourget. He admired Verlaine's genius to the full but the grotesque physical ugliness of the man himself (Verlaine was like a masque of Socrates) and his sordid and unclean way of living prevented Oscar fro

a, who refused it, although she had commissioned him, he always said, to write it. It seems to me inferior even to "V

again, this time in Charles Street, Mayfair. He had learned some rude lessons in the years since leaving Oxford, and the first and most impressive les

knew all his poems by heart, took the strass for diamonds and welcomed the chance of introducing her

ith a pair of deep blue laughing eyes. He had any amount of physical vivacity, and told a good story with immense verve, without for a moment getting above the commonplace: to him the Corinthian journalism of The Daily Telegraph was literature. Sti

Buddha swathed in wraps-a large woman with a heavy face and prominent nose; very like Oscar indeed, with the same sallow skin which always looked dirty; her eyes too were her redeeming feature-vivacious and quick-glancing as a girl's. She "made up" like an actress and naturally preferred shadowed gloom to sunlight. Her

the predestined saviour of her country. "Parnell," she said with a strong accent on the first syllable, "is t

ho floated towards us clad in a sage-green gown, which sheathed her like a

who was standing on the other side of his mother, talking to a tall, handsome girl. Willie's friend

lde?" she asked with a

not expect Oscar that afternoon; "he is so busy with his new poems, you know; they say the

Sphinx,' that he read to us. He told us the written verse was quite different from what the pri

a falsetto voice, moving into the circle;

un-English note about it of shiftlessness; the ?sthetic dresses were extrav

in an obscure sheet and in itself commonplace enough it made an astonishing stir. Time and advertisement had been working for him. Academic lectures and imitative poetry alike had made him w

ouse," shocking Philistinism, gave them a certain opportunity which they used to the uttermost. On all sides on

e long and s

th silver-sa

a frighte

ere unimportant. The small remnant of people in England who really love the things of the spirit

s fell flat in consequence; but his failures in this field were few and merely comparative; constant practice was ripening his extraordinary natural

o some of the best houses in London, but it produced no money. He was earning very

iking for old furniture and old silver, for fine pictures, Eastern carpets and Renascence bronzes; in fine, he had all the artist's desires as well as those of the poet and viveur.

good world

to spend or

to borrow or g

orst world that

champagne and caviare; but without bread, hunger is imminent. Victory no longer seemed indubitable. It was pos

very day his reputation as a talker was growing. Had he had a little more self-control, had he waited a little longer till his position in society was secured, he could easily have married someone with money and position who would have placed him above sordid care and fear for ever. But he could not wait; he was colos

Dublin on a lecture tour. Miss Lloyd had a few hundreds a year of her own, just enough to keep the wolf from the door. The couple went to live in Tite Street, Chelsea, in a modest li

irst few months of marriage his wife went out but little, and later children came and kept her at home. Having earned a respite from care by his marriage, Oscar did little for the next three years but talk. Critical observers began to make up their minds that he was a talk

ery other European country, however, able men are encouraged to talk; in England alone they are discouraged. People in society use a debased jargon or slang, snobbish shibboleths for the most part, and

tone of dislike and disgust. Now indignantly, now with contempt, men spoke of him as abandoned, a creature of unnat

ar